( right. that's the worst thing about embry, about men, about men like embry — once you get comfortable, they show off how shitty they are. not that embry has taken any particular efforts to disguise how shitty he is, and not that parisa is exactly choosing to be comfortable right now, but she is vulnerable. someone decent would probably be inclined towards pity, except decent people don't exist, and parisa hasn't forgotten her philosophy on the empty goodness of men just because she wanted some empathy, for once. far be it from her to expect anything other than what she's always been given — embry is the rule, not any exception. well, he's not fucking her, so at least there's that, if you want to say it's a positive.
asking for her help with his proffered side of insults. she shoves him off, pathetically weak, stumbling up to her feet and clumsily making her way to the sink on her side, ramming her stomach into the hard edge of the counter when she manages to steady her dizzy mind. luckily, she lost the heels on entering the bathroom, so she's fine enough to work on meditative breathing, the ins and outs of being calm, of not throwing up. she turns on the water and scrubs her hands, her face, viciously. she can't think about danny without imagining him stuffing his fat dick in her cunt, letting her see the images of embry's desecrated corpse in the chapel, pushing them into her, like his cock, over and over and over. good time to be sick, however, it's in her favor that embry just massively pissed her off and reminded her of all the reasons why she shouldn't care — she doesn't care, not what embry does, not what danny does, not any decision any of them made. they're all just as awful as each other — that is the plight of mankind. )
I ate a bird. Raw, from the sky. ( hand shoveling water into her mouth, spitting it back out ) Last month it was a raw chicken breast. I imagine it'll keep getting worse until I eventually kill and eat a person, so you might want to lock your door at night.
( moving on, like she didn't say anything at all, )
Time was part of my dissertation. I know you don't care, before you start grumbling. ( turning around, she leans back against the sink, crossing her arms over her chest. ignoring the silver hair she saw in her widow's peak, because embry is not the person to have a freak out in front of right now, clearly. ) Actually it was the central focus— namely, that time is an illusion. It's flexible to thought or emotion, largely centralized on the intelligence of the person experiencing the time. ( her head inclined towards him, as if to say but you're a dumb bitch. ) The time is still happening, you're not losing it. You're just waking up between two points. People have blackouts all the time and regain memories from it — because the body is conscious, even if the mind isn't. ( she makes a gesture to her head ) Imagine your brain like a variety of different rooms. Most of the shallow doors are wide open, like how I'm actively reading your mind right now. The deeper ones are closed, but openable. Lost memories, or actively concealed thoughts, are like locked doors, closed until you have a key. Luckily, you're in the presence of the most talented telepath in the world. If you want to regain those memories, I can do that, easily.
( after a thoughtful second, ) I doubt I can stop the blackouts entirely, though. I can be with you, in your mind permanently, and see when it goes offline — but that's asking a lot from me, and you did just call me disgusting, so I'm not rushing to help you.
no subject
asking for her help with his proffered side of insults. she shoves him off, pathetically weak, stumbling up to her feet and clumsily making her way to the sink on her side, ramming her stomach into the hard edge of the counter when she manages to steady her dizzy mind. luckily, she lost the heels on entering the bathroom, so she's fine enough to work on meditative breathing, the ins and outs of being calm, of not throwing up. she turns on the water and scrubs her hands, her face, viciously. she can't think about danny without imagining him stuffing his fat dick in her cunt, letting her see the images of embry's desecrated corpse in the chapel, pushing them into her, like his cock, over and over and over. good time to be sick, however, it's in her favor that embry just massively pissed her off and reminded her of all the reasons why she shouldn't care — she doesn't care, not what embry does, not what danny does, not any decision any of them made. they're all just as awful as each other — that is the plight of mankind. )
I ate a bird. Raw, from the sky. ( hand shoveling water into her mouth, spitting it back out ) Last month it was a raw chicken breast. I imagine it'll keep getting worse until I eventually kill and eat a person, so you might want to lock your door at night.
( moving on, like she didn't say anything at all, )
Time was part of my dissertation. I know you don't care, before you start grumbling. ( turning around, she leans back against the sink, crossing her arms over her chest. ignoring the silver hair she saw in her widow's peak, because embry is not the person to have a freak out in front of right now, clearly. ) Actually it was the central focus— namely, that time is an illusion. It's flexible to thought or emotion, largely centralized on the intelligence of the person experiencing the time. ( her head inclined towards him, as if to say but you're a dumb bitch. ) The time is still happening, you're not losing it. You're just waking up between two points. People have blackouts all the time and regain memories from it — because the body is conscious, even if the mind isn't. ( she makes a gesture to her head ) Imagine your brain like a variety of different rooms. Most of the shallow doors are wide open, like how I'm actively reading your mind right now. The deeper ones are closed, but openable. Lost memories, or actively concealed thoughts, are like locked doors, closed until you have a key. Luckily, you're in the presence of the most talented telepath in the world. If you want to regain those memories, I can do that, easily.
( after a thoughtful second, ) I doubt I can stop the blackouts entirely, though. I can be with you, in your mind permanently, and see when it goes offline — but that's asking a lot from me, and you did just call me disgusting, so I'm not rushing to help you.